Mrs. Grant spoke as though she were simply issuing an order, not waiting for Eleanor to answer before hanging up the phone.
Eleanor sat in silence for a few seconds, elbow bent on the desk, burying her face in her palm.
Just as one wave of trouble subsided, another crashed in.
An indescribable exhaustion, thick as mud, swept over her, subrging and infiltrating her limbs, a cold spreading deep and slow through her bones.
She couldn’t help but want to hide in the darkness behind closed eyes for a little longer.
But running away was pointless.
Who isn’t cursing the world one mont, then pretending they’re okay the next, their mind strung taut, talking about so wild kind of freedom?
Eleanor—the Victorious Buddha—stood up.
Jolly God glanced at Eleanor’s leave request; the reason was, yet again, a blind date. He looked up at her.
The girl’s pretty pale face had gone even whiter, drained of all color, her eyes streaked with red lines—defeated, irritable, unable to vent.
He didn’t ask anything extra, approved her leave slip, and said in a dry tone, "The Aztil Market off the Peridian Way is a good spot, Zanthos Square’s cinema has the best sound. Eat well, have so fun, clear your head. If people start talking at the office tomorrow, you just let your boss handle it."
Eleanor let out a choked laugh, pretending to be nonchalant, but the raw protectiveness in his words made her bitter and her composure collapse.
She just barely held her expression together, honestly saying, "This ti it really is a blind date—not moping over rumors."
Even when modern folks go on a blind date, it’s not like seeing The Reaper—at least they can laugh without tears inside.
Jolly God cared about her pride. "Don’t take it the wrong way, the boss just wants you to know—when shit flies, question others first, then comfort yourself. Don’t overthink it, don’t bla yourself."
Even though Jolly God obviously ant Leona Lewis, Eleanor still felt sucker-punched. In a world where she could do no right, soone was telling her—she wasn’t wrong.
Eleanor took a deep breath, "Thanks, my God."
Jolly God waved it off, unconcerned.
Eleanor left the office and took a cab ho to The Grant Family’s house.
Mrs. Grant waited in the living room. As soon as she saw her, she pointed to a paper bag on the coffee table. "Change into that, and put on proper makeup."
Eleanor replied quietly and carried the bag upstairs.
Mrs. Grant had picked out a cream-colored knit dress, long sleeves and a high neck—no skin exposed, but it clung to every curve.
Eleanor would never dress like this normally; her usual clothes were old-fashioned, dark, layers upon layers, wrapped up tightly, ugly and without any fun—just to dampen Cillian Grant’s interest in her.
Not dressing up was part of that strategy.
What girl in her early twenties doesn’t like being pretty? She just wanted to protect herself.
But this ti Mrs. Grant was clearly serious—the clothes handpicked and leaving no excuse for refusal.
Eleanor threw a dull gray coat over it and headed downstairs. As expected, Mrs. Grant was displeased. "Take off that coat—young girls shouldn’t wear such colors, it’s an embarrassnt to The Grant Family."
"Mother, it’s winter," Eleanor clutched at her collar. "Just a dress is freezing. I can take it off once we’re at Serene Garden."
"The car has heat," Mrs. Grant stared her down. "Take it off now; cold won’t kill you."
Eleanor knew that resisting was useless, and any argunt would end in Mrs. Grant’s wrath, and harsh suppression.
Better to just go along quietly, survive one day at a ti—she only had to make it through the week, anyway.
When she obediently took it off, Mrs. Grant looked pleased. After scrutinizing her from head to toe, her satisfaction grew.
Eleanor wasn’t very tall—just about five-foot-five—but her proportions were striking: a slim, delicate waist setting off her curves to perfection.
Mrs. Grant had seen her share of beauties in high society, and even she was briefly transfixed.
She was surprised that, right under her nose, she’d never noticed how fresh and striking this not-quite-biological daughter had grown.
She couldn’t help but slightly regret arranging this blind date; with Eleanor’s looks, even if not blood, she could marry into a far better match.
But Phoebe had been adamant, and since it was her first ti organizing such a thing, Mrs. Grant didn’t want to undermine her.
.........
At Serene Garden, crossing the lobby, a voice suddenly called out, "Grace!"
Mrs. Grant instinctively stopped. Her na was Grace York—ever since marrying into The Grant Family, she’d been called Mrs. Grant or Lady Grant.
Hardly anyone used her na anymore.
She turned and, seeing who it was, was first incredulous: "Hailey?"
Hailey walked over and embraced her. "It’s been ages! Never thought I’d bump into you here."
Hailey was Mrs. Grant’s best friend before marriage; it had been three or four years since they’d t. After introducing Eleanor, Mrs. Grant found herself reluctant to leave.
Noting it was close to five, she hesitated, then instructed a nearby server to escort Eleanor upstairs to the private room.
Eleanor followed the server up to the third floor. That floor catered to elite mbers, with seven VIP suites; the two by the stairs, one with the door half-open, a blur of n and won’s chaotic voices inside, the other with its door wide open.
Sitting with his back to the door was a man, hair glossy and thick, a black suit accentuating his broad shoulders and straight back.
He heard movent at the door and turned around.
Under the suite’s blazing lights, a striking pair of features ca into focus—polished, distinguished.
Noticing her, a flicker of amazent flashed in his eyes, then a courteous and reserved smile appeared.
Eleanor glanced sideways, searching for the server, wanting to confirm if this was the right room.
But beside her—empty. The server had vanished at so point.
Eleanor turned back; the man stood up and pulled out the chair beside him. "Please, have a seat."
Eleanor hesitated. Mrs. Grant hadn’t ntioned who the blind date was, and she’d felt so put off she hadn’t asked. Now, wanting to greet and double-check, she couldn’t bring herself to speak.
After a few seconds of awkwardness, she braced herself and stepped in.
Up close, the man’s height was even more pronounced, his skin fair, smile deepening so the corners of his eyes showed faint lines.
Eleanor guessed his age—over thirty, but beyond that, couldn’t tell.
In upper circles, n and won were experts at self-care; forty- or fifty-year-olds could easily look thirty.
"Let introduce myself first." The man was exceptionally gentlemanly, pushing in her chair. "My na is Simon."
Eleanor replied, "Grant—Eleanor Grant."
"No need to be so formal, Miss Eleanor—we’ve t before." Simon offered her a cup of tea.
Eleanor paused, unable to help looking up at the man.
Simon’s eyes were exceptionally bright, not piercing but upright and respectful, his expression refined, dignified.
Even if Eleanor wasn’t usually interested in n, soone like him—so outstanding—was impossible to forget after just one encounter.
"I’m sorry." Eleanor grew even more awkward. "I really don’t rember."
"No worries, Miss Eleanor." Simon smiled softly. "That day was, well, chaotic—you probably weren’t paying attention to strangers."
Eleanor was even more puzzled.
Simon smiled and, before answering, already showed an apologetic look. "At White Family Hospital—my friend was taking his partner for a checkup, and I happened to be there."
Eleanor froze.
Simon noticed, and apologized gently, "Sorry if that was out of line—I didn’t an to bring it up, but I wanted to be honest: that was the first ti I saw you."
Eleanor’s face remained impassive.
Just as the atmosphere stiffened, a male voice barked down the hall: "If you regret the blind date, just say so! Leaving hanging for half an hour—what is this?"
Mrs. Grant’s voice was displeased: "When The Grant Family says sothing, we an it—we don’t go back on our word. I watched Eleanor co upstairs myself."
Eleanor couldn’t help but look at Simon.
He also looked stunned. "Miss Eleanor, I’m... not the man you’re supposed to be eting?"
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